This is August in Washington: Warm sunlight washes down your face and cold winds scamper over your arms and the world has gone to ruin.

You meet Erin first. You don’t remember the first words you said to each other but you remember the way she shook under her jacket and held her hands in front of her head as if that would do anything to stop your bat.

You remember the way you lowered it to your side, tapping the metal against your thigh, and asked if she knew first aid.

You led her back to the motel you’d been holed up in for two weeks. She set your dislocated shoulder, let you bite down on her balled up sweater to keep you from screaming. When she was done, you asked for her name. She looked hesitant to give it to you. You think names hold more power in her world than yours.

You steal guns together. She keeps all of them. You can’t let go of your bat.

This is September in Washington: It is cold more days than not, it snowed a week ago and you are still complaining about it, and you are fleeing the motel.

The motel is not easy to flee. A zombie grabs your ankle and you have to cave in it’s head. Erin is so close to being bitten that, even after you escape, you think you might have a heart attack.

A boy sees you running through the streets, struggling for air— you don’t know when your binder got this tight— and he calls out to you. He’s standing on the roof of a small building and tells you that he’ll unbarricade the top of the stairs for you. You think he’s an idiot. Or maybe just nice. Not much difference, anymore.

Erin shouts out “Andre!” when she sees him, and you think oh, that’s why. It makes more sense than him helping out two strangers.

You make it to the top and the two of them embrace. You shift your feet, a little awkward, a little jealous without totally understanding why.

He shakes your hand, and you grip a little too tight on purpose. You keep your bat in your offhand, although that can’t be taken as much of a threat, considering how you would do it regardless.

This is October in Washington: It is cold more days than not, you fear the day it snows again, and there is a couple on the roof.

You haven’t carved out a niche in this group of three yet. Erin doesn’t seem to mean it, but you feel like a third wheel. You barely know them, it makes perfect sense, but you almost want to be alone again, just to chase away the feeling.

You see the couple on the roof and nearly beat them to death before Erin puts a hand on your arm and tells you that they’re friendly. You nearly punch her and Andre in the face, because this is not the kind of decision they’re supposed to make without consulting you.

You have to remind yourself, pointedly, that you are not their leader.

The girl is standing, cringing back from you, and the boy is sitting on the ground, cradling his arm. You ask if it’s broken and he says “probably.” Weak links. They’ll drag you down.

You blink and you’re asking Erin to get you a good plank. You put his arm in a makeshift cast, just like your dad taught you, even while he makes jokes about not being able to jerk off anymore that tempt you to break it further.

The girl thanks you profusely. The boy calls you dude, which sends a very unwelcome rush of gender euphoria through your lungs. You shouldn’t need strangers to validate your masculinity.

“We’ll leave as soon as we can, don’t worry,” the girl says.

“You can stay as long you want, Willow,” Erin replies before you can say a word.

You need to stop being such a control freak. You reach into your bag, pulling out one of the energy drinks you got while you were looting. You try not to think about how unsustainable the habit is.

You hear the boy, Matt, whispering to Erin. “Can you ask if he can drop the bat?”

“It’s not you," she replies. "He sleeps with it.”

You climb out on one of the thick oak trees whose branches touch your rooftop. You bury yourself in the leaves and try not to think about running.

In one week, the zombies start congregating outside and pounding on the door. You all flee through the trees. You have to put Matt’s good arm over your shoulder and practically carry him along, and he has to trust that you won’t push him into the horde. Equally difficult tasks.

You spot a truck with only a lone zombie near it. “Can anyone hotwire cars?” you ask. Matt raises a splinted hand.

He gets Erin to help him because she has the nimblest fingers, even though you’d rather have her on sniper duty. She hands you one of her pistols and you hold it with an untrained hand, unwilling to let go of your bat for a second. Willow is next to you, holding the butterfly knife you didn’t want to give her. Andre is wielding a fire extinguisher.

“It’s done!” Matt shouts as the truck roars to life. You shove the pistol back into Erin’s hand and hop in the driver’s seat, praying to every god you do not believe in that it’s a stick shift.

It is.

Matt, Willow, and Erin are all crammed in the backseat. You keep the cool metal handle of your bat between your knees. “Where did you learn to drive?” Andre asks.

Your grip around the steering wheel is white-knuckled. You are not supposed to talk about life before. “My dad was teaching me.”

The car is silent. The past tense settles down, making a home for itself in your chest.

“Where now?” you ask the car.

If someone had asked where you’d go before this, you would have said California. California split along the San Andreas fault in January, when this all started. You had just turned sixteen. You were looking forward to getting your license.

“Montana?” Matt suggests, his voice a little strained. This is probably a lot of exercise for a guy with a broken arm.

“It’ll be cold,” you remind him.

“Everywhere will be cold,” Erin reminds you.

“We’d have to go through Idaho.” The car goes silent again. No one wants to go through Idaho. “Oregon?”

“Why not go further up North?” Willow suggests quietly. “Fewer people there.”

You go North.

This is October in Washington: It is so cold that your fingers are numb, in your rare moments of sleep you have nightmares about car crashes, and there is a person on the side of the road.

“Stop for them, Noah!” Erin commands you. You almost don’t. You do.

Some tiny part of you wonders if this person will help fill out your niche. Erin and Andre are best friends. Willow and Matt are dating. When do you get your other puzzle piece?

They’re trying to flag you down, you notice as you slow the truck. They clamber into the back so quickly that you feel second hand stranger danger.

You almost want to take out the bat, just to scare a little sense into them. “Where are you going?”

“My name's Jinx,” they tell you, although that’s not what you asked.

“Where are you going?” you ask again.

“I don’t know.”

You try not to start sobbing into your hands as you realize that they’re getting a spot in this group whether you like it or not. Which is a little dramatic, even for your tastes. Maybe you should be sleeping more.

There shouldn’t be room for them in the back, but they’re tiny, so they squeeze in next to Erin.

Somehow, Erin and them get to talking about some show they both watched before, and they already fit in better than you do.

You started this group. It’s not fair that you still feel like an outsider.

You bring one hand down to grip around your bat, keeping the other on the wheel.

Maybe it’s not their fault that you don’t fit. Maybe it’s yours.

This is November in Washington: You’re nearing Canada, there’s snow in your rear-view, and you are alone.

You’ve split up to get as many supplies as you can before crossing the border. You were supposed to go in groups of two. You asked to be by yourself.

You haven’t been truly alone since you met Erin, and it's almost uncomfortable.

But you were alone a long time before that, so you’re used to it.

You’re exploring the subway system on a whim when you are very suddenly not alone anymore.

You are standing in one of the train cars when the door is grating shut behind you. There’s a knife hovering at your ribcage. You grip your bat so tight it hurts.

“What are you doing here?” the person behind you asks.

“Wanted to see if there was any good loot.”

“Why would there be good loot down here?”

You shrug stiffly, feeling yourself go red. The knife is still too close to your skin, but it’s not pressing anymore. “I don’t want to steal your sh*t. Just let me get back to my friends.”

It is a very odd first time to call a group of people your friends, but you have never claimed to be conventional.

The knife is drawn back. You turn around and watch as the person tugs on the shut subway car door. It doesn’t budge. Despite every instinct in you screaming to stay away from them, you come up to try and help. It does not move.

“You locked us in here!” You jab an accusing finger at them, and they swat it away.

“I didn’t mean to!”

You go back and forth like that for a few minutes as the panic in your chest builds. Finally, you get tired of yelling and settle into one of the seats, arms crossed, still gripping your bat.

“I’m Bowie,” they tell you.

“Noah,” you tell them.

“You a loner?”

“No.”

“I am.”

You scratch at your arm. You can only hope that none of your friends can drive, that they still need you enough to come looking for you. You and Bowie sit in more silence, on opposite sides of the train car, for a long time. You shiver, even in your jacket.

You can’t imagine how Bowie must feel, in that sh*tty hoodie.

You try to sleep. You can’t. You’re hungry. “How’d you get the knife?” you end up asking, after a long few hours. It must be night now.

They have their knees pulled up to their chest, holding the knife up, pointed at nothing. “Looted it, back in March.” They turn to face you. “How’d you get the bat?”

You freeze. No one has dared to ask yet. They all know that it is important and that you don’t like talking about important things, so they don’t ask. You’re going to brush it off, but the words are coming out before you can. “My dad gave it to me. Before.”

Bowie nods, solemnly. "My dad's dead."

You swallow. "Yeah. Mine too."

“I really miss cartoons,” they say with a laugh.

You're smiling before you can help yourself. “F*ck, man, me too.”

Before you can keep going, there’s a pounding on the door. You jerk up, bat attack-ready, but instead of a zombie outside, you see Erin. The grin on your face doesn’t slip, no matter how much you try to push it down.

She tries pushing on the slider door for a minute before ushering you to the left with her hand. You drag Bowie back with you, trying not to mind the way they shrink from your touch. Erin pulls out her pistol and shoots the door.

Then she’s jerking it open and pulling you into a hug.

You freeze in her grip. She has her head over your shoulder, holding onto the back of your jacket. You feel a wet spot and realize that she’s crying. Slowly, awkwardly, you bring your hands up around her as well.

“Don’t do that again, Noah,” she commands. “We thought you were dead.” You nod helplessly. Your body still doesn’t know what to do with itself.

You’re still holding tight to her when you say “This is Bowie.”

“Hi,” they say with a small wave.

Erin pulls back from you, wiping her hands over her eyes. “Nice to meet you.”

You walk out together. You arrive at the truck and you get two more hugs, which is two times the hugs you’ve had all year.

You all pile into the car and you find that your hands are shaking.

This is December in Canada: The snow goes up to your ankles, you turn seventeen, and you fit.